


All In One Night

by TeaHouseMoon (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bartender flirting with John, Car Sex, Coming In Pants, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Smut, Jealous John, Jealous Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Lots of kissing, M/M, Married Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mycroft's Car, Nipple Play, Public Display of Affection, Public Masturbation, Public Sex, Sherlock throwing a tantrum, Smut, Snogging, a reaaally long ride home to Baker Street, almost, also, and more nipple play, basically an extended PWP, but who cares, did I say nipple play?, in later chapter, loads of snogging, lots of love, lots of nipple play, possibly unrealistic refractory period, so much love, that poor driver!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 04:05:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7027798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock asks John to role play, and pretend to be strangers so that he can seduce him all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am posting this in 3 installments, but this story is finished. Chapters will be published in the next few hours/within a day.
> 
> Take this as an extended PWP, because, hmmm, there isn't much meaning to it. :)  
> Also, this fic had been sitting in my computer for a while, but would have never seen the light of day had Poppy not inspired me with one of her brilliant ideas so once again, thanks Poppy Alexander for the inspiration!! xx

The moment right after sex is the one John likes best.

Well, that's not true; the sex itself is the one he likes best, really – but the moments right after it, those he _cherishes._

Because everything is warm, soft, and relaxed; when their breathing has slowed back down to a relaxed rhythm and their bodies are still buzzing, but not seeking completion, looking for release, gasping for pleasure. That is when they can kiss, speak through quiet moans into each other’s mouths that mean ‘I want you’, without actually needing to use the words.

He likes it best because Sherlock is quiet;  his beautiful, full mouth – like a woman’s, red and swollen, how was John so blessed – relaxed, lips pressing to John’s, releasing, chasing John again. As much as John adores hearing Sherlock speak, voice the breath taking workings of his phenomenal mind, there are times when he just needs him to be quiet, needs his mouth to be otherwise occupied.

Sometimes, though, it doesn't happen. Sometimes John’s pretty fantasy is shattered; like now.

They're lying in bed, on their sides, facing each other, nude except for the bed sheets that cover the lower half of their bodies. The room is warm and smells of them; it's really late at night, but John has lost track of time.

“This has become rather easy for you,” Sherlock’s voice rumbles, as he burrows his face in the pillow a little, licks his upper lip after another lazy, passionate kiss.

“Mmmmh?,” John asks, crawling his hand down on the mattress and reaching towards him, with closed eyes, to kiss that sinful mouth again. “What has become easy?”

“You always have me whenever you want.”

John goes back to lying on his side, watching him. Sherlock licks the kiss from his lips.

“Hmmm,” John only says. His eyelids are at half mast, his head pleasantly fuzzy; he hopes Sherlock will shut up soon because right now it's not the time for talking. 

“Hmm. Move your arm,” he growls softly. With his nose he nudges at the arm that Sherlock set down on the mattress in front of his chest to keep himself propped up on his side. Sherlock does as he's asked, and when he gets his arm out of the way and over his side his left pectoral is exposed; John leans down, towards the nipple that's begging to be kissed and bitten – that's what he's been doing to it not even an hour ago – and kisses it, takes it into his mouth, licks all around it and gently bites, gently nibbles at it.

“Ah!” Sherlock closes his eyes; John laves his nipple softly for a few moments, then pushes with his chin against Sherlock’s chest to make him lie down on his back, half-climbs on top of him, still latching onto the nipple, sucking from it.

“Ah. John,” Sherlock moans again. His strong chest arches up beautifully from the bed, head thrown back on the soft white pillow; he breathes into it for a few more seconds – his hand goes on John’s head, his fingers rake gently through his hair and John knows he's watching. Then the hand moves again, and tentatively pushes at John's forehead to make him let go.

 “This is what I mean.” Sherlock resumes his speech. “You  just have me, whenever you want. Do whatever you want with me.”

John stops. Looks up at him from down over his ribcage.

“Because you don't want it as well?”

“Of course I do,” Sherlock says, with the roll of his eyes he reserves for when John is stating the absolute, most evident obvious. 

John leaves his eyes half-open, doesn't fight the mistiness in favour of becoming more alert, because when he gets like this Sherlock tends to speak in riddles, leaves sentences half-built and inconclusive, sometimes even berates John for not understanding but ultimately, nothing comes from it: he forgets about it the day after, or when a new case comes, or when he starts a new experiment – and John has learnt that the whole exercise is just not worth the effort it requires on his part.

He moves back up Sherlock’s body, until he's over him, eyes to eyes, mouth to mouth.

“ _You always come_ ,” he murmurs on Sherlock’s lips, low, husky. Kisses him; slow, warm, push, pull, a deep inhale, a light bite on the plush lower lip. When it's done, Sherlock looks up at him, blue eyes penetrating even in the darkness, and nods. 

"I always come." 

John can't help but smile, proudly, a bit bashfully perhaps. He's always surprised at how much he still likes to be told that he does a good job in bed.

"But still. It's way too easy, John!”

The spell is broken. John drops his forehead back onto Sherlock's chest, sighs loudly.

"Sherlock..."

"It's true, John! We'll get bored soon. Our marriage will grow stale."

"Our marriage will _not_ _grow stale_!", John counters, exasperated. "Jesus, Sherlock. Where do you even find-"

"We need to _role play_."

The words hang between them; resonate like the chimes of a very big, very thunderous church bell. John blinks, narrows his eyes; chews on the inside of his lower lip.

"Role play?"

"Yes, John. Role play. You know what that is. And I'm sure you've done it before - likely plenty of times..." The sentence ends with an echo of a question, and his eyes stare into John's meaningfully.

"I'm not discussing my past sexual encounters with you."

"Right. So you've done it. So you know. We should do it."

Slowly, John sits up, takes a deep breath. Role play? He didn't think Sherlock would be into that; he doesn't even know where Sherlock got the idea, in fact. He isn't sure he wants to know.

"Just once? Just to try.” Sherlock’s voice's no longer snappy now, gone back to his usual, low, seduce-John-in-bed timbre. And as usual, it works; John lets it seduce him. It's not that he doesn't like what Sherlock's proposing, anyway - he's just surprised, is all.

"And what are you thinking of-"

"I want you to want me again."

John frowns. "Sherlock, I do want you-"

"No, " Sherlock purrs, pulls himself up to half-sit on the bed so he's close to John.  "I want you to seduce me. As if you don't know me. _As if we're strangers_." He leans closer to John, nuzzles with his nose against John's mouth, his cheek. His voice is velvet, hot smooth honey when he speaks.  
"As if you have to woo me _…impress me_ , so you can have my body."

Fuck. If that wasn't some very vivid image, indeed. John closes his eyes, while Sherlock is still breathing hot on his face, and feels that he's become hard almost instantly at just that mere handful of words.

"And how-" he tries to speak, has to clear his throat. "How do you suggest we do it, hmm?"

Sherlock kisses him, light, but with his full mouth pressed firm against John's thirsty lips.

"We go out....meet somewhere? One of those bars people like so much. I'll dress up...wait for you at the counter..."

John closes his eyes, while Sherlock's mouth hovers over his as if to kiss, breathes hot breaths on his already incensed skin. He pictures the scenario in his head - a posh bar, Sherlock in his dark grey suit, the one with the black shirt worn underneath that makes his body look incredible, all narrow waist and strong thighs and the outline of nipples under the shirt - leaning on the counter, sipping on a glass of wine while all eyes are on him, people probably thinking he is indeed a prostitute, a luxury expensive escort anybody can hire and take home to touch and undress and-

"No."

Sherlock's mouth closes. He lifts his head straight. "No?" 

"We're not doing that. We're not role playing in a bar. With people. No."

"But John-"

"I said no." John's voice is firm, his tone final. He feels his body burn, his muscles all tense - he's a terribly jealous partner, and so he isn't surprised at the onslaught of possessiveness that particular thought of Sherlock has caused in him.

Sherlock raises wide eyes on him.

“John. It’s only pretending. Don’t be absurd.”

John clears his throat. He knows he’s being absurd, thank you very much; he’s thinking ‘ _we’re pretending, but what if someone gets your attention before me?’_ , and he perfectly knows how utterly ridiculous and stupid that sounds. He can't help looking down, at Sherlock's hand on the mattress, at the white gold ring on his finger, feeling the irrational need to reassure himself that Sherlock is his husband, belongs to him.  
_Which is why I shouldn’t have to win him for myself all over again._

“It’s just that…it’s you”, is what John blurts finally, after all his internal musing.  
Definitely the wrong thing to say.

“It’s _me_.”

Sherlock’s eyes are wide and piqued, shining with irritation.

“It’s _me_ , so you don’t have to make an effort. Is this what you mean?”

He pushes away the bed sheet with a sharp movement of his hand, and turns around, giving his back to John, and hides his face in the pillow. His messy black curls are the only thing John can make out on the white of the pillow and duvet; honestly, he’s surprised Sherlock is still in bed, and has not got up and left in a huff.

John sighs.

“Hey.” He murmurs, scooting closer to Sherlock’s back, just a couple of inches. “Hey. That’s not what I meant. You know it.” He tries to touch Sherlock’s flank, but receives a rigid intake of breath in response; John gentles his hand, slides it slowly up Sherlock’s naked shoulder.

“I’m sorry. Hey? That’s not what I meant at all. You know it’s not.” Sherlock’s eyes stay closed shut. John looks at the outline of the dark eyelashes on his cheek, and sighs. He married Sherlock, all of him, including his tantrums – and he will ride this one, too, and come out victorious. He hopes.

He strokes Sherlock’s curls away from his nape, and murmurs low in his ear. 

“We’ll go out tomorrow. Somewhere nice. You can dress up, and look your usual stunning self, and then we'll see if I don't find a new way to persuade you out of all those tight clothes.”

Through the darkness, he can see Sherlock’s mouth stretch in a smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys finally meet at a bar...

  
The day after, and John is sitting in a bar, at the counter. He’s sipping on a glass of whiskey; he's well dressed - grey slacks, dark shirt, his favourite navy-blue buttoned jacket. The place – a dining room and bar, upscale but not kitsch; there's a piano player in a corner, but the ambiance is not pretentious, the decor elegant but down to earth; the lights are dimmed – is pleasantly buzzing with well-dressed patrons.

John gets lost in people-watching for a while, he thinks he’s even subconsciously deducing some of them – the lady in yellow is on holiday and looking for a fling; the guy next to her, a young bloke looking for an older lady, might just be the thing for her - that he doesn’t even notice his glass is almost empty.

“Would you like another one, Sir?”

The bartender, a good looking man – boy? He can’t be older than twenty-five – is smiling at John, and then winking at him when John accepts a refill. His chest seems taut, and his teeth are so white when he smiles…

“Bit young for you, don’t you think?”

The dark, husky voice almost makes John jump. He brings the glass to his lips, and takes a sip, swallows, feeling his veins warm up pleasantly.  
Sherlock looks stunning. All in dark navy, formal jacket but the casual touch of no tie around his neck; his hair gorgeously curled, shiny ebony in the honeyed light of counter. There’s a flush on his cheeks. John stares at him for a moment, wonders where that colour comes from, feeling himself growing even warmer in reaction.

“Ah. Maybe.” He takes another sip. “And who do you think I should go for, then?”

He sees Sherlock’s eyes narrow. They’re blue, and dark; intense, as if Sherlock is deducing him.

“Someone closer to your age would be a good start.”

Sherlock’s tone is clipped and stern. John takes a sip of whiskey and chuckles quietly to himself – oh, wow. Sherlock is jealous. _He’s jealous_. John smiles, finds it hard to hide how pleased he is: not even five minutes into their little experiment, and he’s already managed to throw Sherlock.

“Hum, I don’t know,” John says. His hand around his sturdy glass on the counter, he leans over toward Sherlock a little, so that he can murmur to him. “I rather enjoy the feel of white, smooth skin against mine. Running my fingers through dark hair…pulling it a little.”

He sees Sherlock close his eyes, almost imperceptibly, for a fragment of a second. After that the blue gaze is newly on John, just as intense, just as piqued.  
John pulls back, smiles a little pleased smile.  
“Can I get you a drink?” he asks, and then sips again from his glass, slowly.  
He watches as Sherlock flutters his eyelashes but juts his chin up at the same time, a show of stubbornness that John knows well.

“You may. But if you’re thinking of making me the next victim of your hunt for a bedfellow, you’re in no luck, I’m afraid. I’m married.”

He wiggles his ring finger as he says so, and John smiles, tight lipped. “A large glass of your Bordeaux, please”, he requests to the bartender, without looking at him because he’s got his eyes fixed on Sherlock, who’s just managed to throw him in return.

The whisky is running through his veins now; John can definitely play this game.

“Your husband is unwise, then. Leaving you here, on your own, looking like that…”

The wine arrives, and he pushes it towards Sherlock.

Sherlock wraps his fingers around the glass. He pulls a stool towards himself, sits on it, and asks, with a nonchalance which is so evidently feigned.

“And how do I look?”

 _So beautiful,_ John thinks. _Stunning, graceful, elegant and so fucking attractive_ , he wants to say, but of course he won’t, because that would just remind the both of them of how damn smitten John is with Sherlock, and would give Sherlock all the power in their little game.

“That shirt; open on your neck, like that. Like you want someone to bite you, right there on your throat,” John murmurs instead, voice low, husky. His eyes slide down Sherlock’s body. “So tight on your chest as well… I can see your nipples through it. I can see that they’re hard, right now.”

He sees the sudden intake of breath in Sherlock’s chest. He sees the glass of wine as it caresses Sherlock’s lips, and his eyes follows that slow movement, the bob of the Adam’s apple as he swallows.

“Maybe you’re here because your husband neglects you. Maybe your husband doesn’t give you the attention you deserve…”  
It feels weird to ask, but on a weird, subconscious level, John wants to know. There’s truth in every joke, he supposes; even as he berates himself, harshly, the part of himself that still can’t believe Sherlock is his, his husband, his, forever, is forcing him to ask.

“My husband doesn’t neglect me!”  
Sherlock’s reply is instinctive, even a little out of character for the silly show they’re putting on. “On the contrary”, he adds, voice more poised – he’s remembered. “He’s attentive, and gives me everything I need.”

John licks his lips. He feels warm, right in the centre of his chest. “Does he?” He looks down at Sherlock’s taut chest again, then up into his eyes. “And what does he do?”  
He watches, as Sherlock takes another, elegant sip from his red-as blood wine.

“He kisses me.” Sherlock starts. His eyes glitter in the dimmed light of the bar. “He always starts off our unions with a long, deep kiss. He has sturdy hands, and strokes his fingers through my hair when he kisses me, and pulls my curls when he wants me to open my mouth even more. He’s so…forceful…”

Fuck. What was John saying about control?  
Sherlock has only just started speaking, and John already has trouble stopping his knees from wobbling.

“He bites me. My skin is never free of bruises from his mouth…I like it when he sucks on my throat, just right here, near the jut of my clavicle, where the skin is so delicate,” Sherlock’s finger taps gently on the spot he’s describing; John’s eyes follow the movement, utterly hypnotised. “But he’s always biting my nipples. Leaving marks right near them… And sometimes, when he gets jealous – he can be so jealous, my husband – he leaves bruises high on my throat, for everyone to see.”

John has to swallow, hard, and his eyes close on their own accord for a moment. He’s almost irritated as he has to open them again, to fix Sherlock to the spot with the hungriest gaze he’s had for months.

“And when that happens,” Sherlock continues – god, he’s killing him. “When that happens, I lie back and let him do it. And then I don’t wear my scarf for a week.”

John knows he should say something. Sherlock is leading this game, the game that John had started as predator, and now…now he just wants to listen to Sherlock’s wonderful, heavenly, devilish voice describing their sex to him.  
He looks down at Sherlock’s body – the white shirt, the long legs, open, as he perches on the stool – and all he wants to say is _you’d better pull that jacket close, cover that damn shirt that does nothing to hide your nipples from me. From whoever it is that wants to seduce you into their bed._

It’s subconscious, and he doesn’t notice, but he takes a step towards Sherlock – actually, it’s more like a sway in his direction. He’s almost nose to nose with him; he can see his full mouth, red from the wine.  
John wants to pull Sherlock to himself, abruptly, crash their groins together, rut against him until they both come in their trousers.

“That wine. Makes your lips even more red. It’s vulgar.” It’s a scold, and it comes out as a growl. The whisky has gone to his head and he’s swaying, even more perceptibly now, his eyes black as charcoal and fixed into Sherlock. Sat on his stool, Sherlock is looking up at him; his lips are like an offering.

“My husband likes my mouth,” that voice continues – ruthless. “He likes it when I suck him off. When I take all of him in my mouth, and I suck, and suck, until he comes down my throat.”

“Do you like his cock?” John is gone.

“Yes, I do. Very much.”

“Is it big? Is it big when he’s inside you…?”

There’s not even an inch separating them now. John is burning, burning inside and on his skin, burning for Sherlock, Sherlock who’s looking at him with eyes just as incensed and dark and full of desire.

“He’s big. It feels so good, _John_ , so good.” Neither of them notices the slip-up in their role-playing; they’re both too gone to care. “When he takes me, my body becomes his. My body belongs to him. He takes his pleasure from right inside me and I give it to him. _I give it to him_.”  
It’s a good thing that the music is a bit louder now, John has the resolve to think, because they’re being obvious enough without anyone listening in to their conversation. The only reason John isn’t ravishing Sherlock’s mouth right now is because he wants to keep listening.

“He’s so strong, my husband. So good at fucking me. I never want it to end. And when he comes inside me, I want to keep him inside me forever.”

John crashes their mouths together. He’s insane with desire, and he kisses Sherlock like he’s drowning, taking and taking, gasping and heaving in his mouth like a man possessed. “Your husband wants that, too,” he says between kisses. “He never wants it to end. He wants to be inside you, he never wants to leave you.” He’s rambling, kissing and rambling. “You’re so bloody beautiful, do you hear me? Bloody perfect. Gorgeous.”

They kiss for a few more long minutes. John wonders what happened to the posh bartender, hopes they’re not getting in trouble with him – realises he really doesn’t care.  
He has to break their kiss, though, when it becomes obvious it won’t end; when Sherlock starts whining softly in his mouth, pained little sounds that mean he’s past wanting, he needs it.

“Fucking cover yourself up, Sherlock, or I swear to God,” John murmurs against Sherlock’s mouth, eyes closed. “I will take you right here.”

Sherlock smiles on John’s lips; he’s taking deep breaths. The game is over. They need to get out of here.  
He goes to pull the sides of his jacket over his chest, but then he takes one of John’s hands – the one John kept idle at his side out of sheer, painful force of will – and guides it under it.  
John’s calloused fingers are on his nipple instantly; they stroke, and flick, and pinch through the shirt, on their own volition.  
Sherlock places his forehead on John’s shoulder, and breathes deep.

“How the hell are we going to walk out of here?” John scolds again, murmurs in Sherlock’s ear; his thumb keeps flicking the stiff, aching nipple.

_“Make me come here.”_

Sherlock’s words register after a long moment. John has to grit his teeth, as he nearly comes himself, right there and then.

“I’ll ride you in the car, after,” Sherlock purrs against John’s neck, his eyes closed and face practically hidden. “I’ll suck you off in the toilets. Whatever you want. Just – _I’m so close_. Please.”

John thinks this is insane. John thinks they will get arrested, and he will have to find a new and creative way to explain himself to Lestrade after.  
But Sherlock is so hot, burning hot against his shoulder, he’s tense and coiled and at John’s mercy, and John really believes he could come like this; with just John’s words, and John’s roughened, skilled fingers on his nipples. Nobody’s noticed them so far; the posh bartender has avoided their corner of the counter for quite a while now. And the car? He could bet it’ll be one of Mycroft’s cars, with the driver that pulls up the divider and hears and sees nothing of what happens in his leather-covered backseat.

“You’re so close like this, love? Just talking about having sex with me?”  
John knows what to do. He knows which buttons to push, just like Sherlock does, with him.  
He pinches Sherlock’s nipple, rubs over it slowly, until it flicks.

“You’re so hard, already. Just imagining yourself, riding me. Giving me pleasure with your body.”

Sherlock makes a small sound that he tries to suppress against John’s shoulder.  
  
“You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you.” Somehow, John’s other hand manages to snake under Sherlock’s jacket, too, to the other nipple. It starts stroking; a long, strong shiver runs through Sherlock’s whole body and makes him convulse, just so, against John.

“Answer me, Beautiful. You would do anything for me.”

“Yes, John…” Sherlock’s voice is no more than a murmur.

“Then imagine it.” John talks against the side of Sherlock’s neck, makes sure he can feel his hot, damp breath. “You gorgeous thing. Imagine yourself, naked, on me, later. Taking me in; moving your hips on me. We were made for each other; we fit so well. I fit so well, inside you.”

Sherlock widens his knees a bit more at that. John knows it’s instinctive; he steps closer – from the outside, it looks as if they’re embracing. But really, he wants to give Sherlock something to rut against while he talks him to orgasm.

“I wish you didn’t have to be quiet right now. I wish I could hear you. I wish I could hear your moans as I pinch your nipples-“and he pinches them, at the same time, “ –as I touch them. I wish I could bite your throat now, suck on your nipples. Would you like that, Sherlock?”

“Yes, yes John. Please do it. I’m yours, please do it…”

Sherlock is so out of it that John knows he’s actually saying the truth. He would let John do it, right there and then – but of course John is trying –trying his hardest – to keep hold of his sanity, he remembers they’re in a bar, in public. He pinches a nipple again, sharply, and hears Sherlock sob in his shoulder and push himself harder against John’s abdomen.

“You beautiful, sexy thing. You’re so fucking sexy. Let it go. Come on. Come for me, come on, show me how sexy you are…”

Sherlock’s hips only give one sharp jerk, and then he goes still for a long minute, his face still pushed against John’s jacket and muffling the low cry that breaks from his mouth.  
After, John lets his hands slide off Sherlock’s chest, lets them grab him gently by the biceps to support his weakened frame. The curls at Sherlock’s nape are damp with perspiration when John speaks into them.

“We need to go, Love. Come on. We need to get out of here before we actually cause a scene. And also, I really need to fuck you, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know if you liked this story so far! Comments are appreciated... Xx


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ride back to Baker Street.

 

John just manages to drink the last of his whiskey – he figures he needs it, to calm his nerves, perhaps also his brain that right now can only think of one thing – before Sherlock leans over towards him and steals another kiss. This one is slower, more controlled.  
Sherlock is breathing deep, probably still trying to come down from his high.

John enjoys it, until Sherlock pushes his groin into him again – John feels the warmth of him, remember he’s just come – and it becomes torture.

“Hey, hey.” He holds Sherlock by his biceps, gently pushes him back. “Love. I won’t – I need to be able to walk out of here.”

He feels self-conscious, and absurd because of it. Sherlock only looks at him, smiles tightly, but with a glint in his eyes. His hands are already on his phone, summoning their ride, John guesses.

He’s guessed right.

“Car is outside.”

John thinks for a moment. It would be good if he could tell Sherlock to go ahead first, so that he can have a moment to compose himself, take a breather from the cause of the erection he’s currently sporting in his trousers and the downright deranged thoughts his mind is entertaining right now. But his brain is a traitor; his brain reminds him the bar is busier now, Sherlock still looks incredible, smells, and looks like sex – and jealousy flares up in him again like some sort of automatic reaction.

So he clears his throat, and with a hand to the small of Sherlock’s back, he nudges him towards the exit and follows him suit.

The car – a black, luxury sedan, John wonders if Mycroft has any idea what they’re going to use it for. He highly hopes he doesn’t – is indeed outside, waiting, with its sleek doors, and darkened windows.  
John follows Sherlock inside; the divider is already up.

Sherlock looks at him, with shining dark eyes as the car starts pulling away from the curb.

“Wonder if you’d like some music in the background,” he says, with a little side smile. “I was thinking ‘cheesy porn music’ would be most ideal…”

“Get your clothes off and get your arse on me, Sherlock. Now,” John growls, with no mirth. Sherlock chuckles lightly all the same; he makes quick work of his jacket and trousers, and then moves to straddle John, one thigh at each side of him.  
The feeling of that backside on his clothed erection is enough to make John groan out loud.

Sherlock purrs on John’s mouth. “I told the driver to take a nice, leisurely alternative route to Baker Street…”

John kisses him.

The taste of the red wine still lingers; mixes with John’s whiskey. It makes John want to bite at those plump lips, and he does, and earns a whine in return. The fingers of his left hand, his dominant hand, rake through Sherlock’s messy curls and hold, squeeze.

“Open your shirt, Love,” he says, with a bit of a reprimand. “You know I want to see.”

Sherlock sits up to obey. John uses that moment to open his trousers, take himself in hand, stroking, slowly. Once Sherlock is finally naked, he lowers himself down, ruts a bit against John; to John’s surprise – and relief - in his hands he holds a tube of lube.

“In my breast pocket,” he explains.

The lube is warm as John drips a little onto his fingers. Sherlock’s body is scorching hot inside, in contrast; it feels wonderful, tight and ready. Sherlock moans softly, leans down to kiss John’s mouth while he circles his hips – slowly, so slowly – to take the fingers deeper. When that happens he has to break away to breathe, and so John kisses his collarbone, his heart; to the side, his nipple, once again maddeningly tight.

Sherlock’s hips give a sudden jerk, and he stiffens.

“John…”

“Shhh.” John smiles against Sherlock’s chest. “You trust me, Love. Don’t you?”

Sherlock’s eyes are closed, with a little frown in between them, but when he opens them again they’re wide, and black. He nods.  
John holds his gaze for a few moments; then he starts kissing again, the smooth skin in front of him, Sherlock’s stomach, and finally, the nipple again.

The change in Sherlock’s breathing tells John everything he needs to know. He doesn’t even have to move his hand because Sherlock’s hips are moving leisurely, circling and pushing, and by the time John licks a path to the other nipple Sherlock is panting, his body no longer simply braced to be taken but searching, wanting, looking for pleasure. Sherlock’s cock, newly hard, slides against John’s, and Sherlock inhales sharply at the sensation.

“Should always trust me…” John teases gently, stroking both their erections together now, slicking them with lube. Sherlock is serious, focussed; John watches the sweaty curls on his forehead, his burning eyes. Watches, as Sherlock looks down and uses his own hand to guide John inside his body.

“Alright?” John has the resolve to ask, even though he’s sweating, too, now.

Sherlock nods, his eyes tightly closed, and breathing deeply. “Fuck, yes. Yes. You’re _huge_ , fuck, but yes…”

John laughs, genuinely amused. “Then come on, gorgeous. I believe you made me a promise.”

The fact that they're in a car, naked, the fact that they can see the world outside and not be seen, the fact that there's someone in the driver’s seat who can probably hear them if they're loud enough turns John on beyond belief. He's so hard, so needy, so impatient right now; his hands support Sherlock’s buttocks as he holds him, encourages him to move up and down on John’s lap.

Sherlock grunts on his mouth, as they share hot, heated breaths. “It's so much, John.” His strong thighs keep up the motion – up, down, up down – but he's trembling, he's trembling all over. He's clinging to John’s shoulders for dear life. “It's so much, oh! I can't.”

John looks up at him. At his eyes, open just a slit, the blue watery like he wants to cry; he wonders how can this man get more beautiful every second. Sherlock is biting his lips and breathing through them, still red as sin. John wants to drink from them.

“You can.” John doesn't stop for a moment; holds Sherlock’s backside and fucks into him firmly when Sherlock falters. “You're fucking beautiful. You're so bloody beautiful and you need to show it to me now, don't you? Huh?”

“It's so much.” Sherlock says, slurs almost.

They're both beyond reason now. They're both not making sense. Sherlock’s body feels slack and warm on John’s; then he pauses for a moment, seats himself on John. Circles his hips once to get comfortable, and John wants to groan.

“I'll tell him to go back around,” he growls instead against Sherlock’s cheek. He feels his heart hammering wildly inside his chest; his adrenaline spiking.  
He's referring to the driver of course. Sherlock opens wide, teary eyes on John, gives him an intense look.

“I'll tell him to keep driving all night. I want to fuck you for hours.”

“You animal…” The words are spoken on John’s mouth in a sob, a broken breath when their bodies rub together, and John impatiently flexes his hands, his fingers tight on Sherlock’s muscles. Sherlock is sweaty and dishevelled and naked and exhausted, and John is so hard that he starts to feel it, too, and it's overwhelming.  
His black eyes look into Sherlock’s diamond ones, and finally Sherlock starts moving again. He rotates his hips, pushes up and then down, up and down, keeping hold of John’s shoulders and John throws his head back, groans out loud.  
Let the driver hear this.

“Fuck, Sherlock. Fuck. Fuck.”

The pressure is more intense now, and Sherlock is biting his lower lip. A rivulet of perspiration slides down his temple, caressing his cheekbone and chin. John only watches, eyelids half-closed but he watches, does nothing to remove it.  
Sherlock is a vision.

“Are you close,” Sherlock almost begs against John’s cheek. John's hands snake up, fingers raking though the sodden curls and holding his head, thumb rubbing on the bitten lower lip. When John finally grabs Sherlock’s cock, they both cry out, and Sherlock rocks into him, into his hand, into John buried inside him.  
They come, almost together, moaning, looking into each other’s eyes; struggling, madly, for breath.

 

Even though it felt like forever, they're not back at Baker Street yet. The car is cruising slowly along night-shaded London streets; John lets his head fall back against the backrest, closes his eyes, lets himself breathe. He feels more than sees Sherlock’s hands, tucking him carefully back into his pants; he lifts his hips a little to help him.

When he opens his eyes Sherlock's got his trousers and shirt back on, and is running his fingers through his curls in an attempt to tame them.

“Leave it,” John grumbles.

“I look insane.”

“Mmh.” John glances sideways at him again. “You look well shagged.”

Sherlock just huffs, fingers still at work. John reaches out, grabs one of the long hands. Holds it in his, squeezes the fingers, gently. His voice is rough.

“Most beautiful bloody thing I've ever seen.”

Sherlock’s mouth gentles at the corners, stretches in a soft smile, almost bashful. He finally lets go of his hair; he shuffles closer to John, a slight grimace on his face as he does. He smiles; leans up to join their mouths.  
As the car drives, smooth, along yet another street, they kiss, slowly, gently, reverently; all warmth, and stroking tongues, and deep, shared breaths. Taking, and giving control; the taste of each other, mingled.

  
The moment right after sex is the one John likes best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope this was fun. Please leave me a comment if you liked it! X


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